


By Accident

by Sara_Ellison



Category: American Horror Story, Supernatural
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sara_Ellison/pseuds/Sara_Ellison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a habit of falling for the wrong people. Dean tries to discourage his latest crush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sam lounges in the passenger seat, his arm stretched out along the seat-back. His hand briefly brushes the back of Dean's neck; Dean thinks it's an accident until it happens again, the barest touch of the backs of Sam's fingers against his nape. Dean jerks his head away, glaring at his brother. Sam isn't even looking at him; he's staring out the side window at the featureless countryside bordering the interstate.

Later, Sam falls asleep, leaning against the window, slouched low in his seat with his knees splayed apart, his hands resting loose in his lap. Dean doesn't want to know what he dreams, not when Sam is making those little noises in his sleep and tenting his jeans. Dean slaps at the tapedeck, shutting off the quietly blaring AC/DC cassette, and the abrupt relative silence jerks Sam into wakefulness again. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam blush as he adjusts himself and doesn't look at his brother.

They stop at yet another in a chain of indistinguishable greasy-spoon diners, sit across from each other at a booth and eat in relatively easy silence. Sam's long leg, stretched out under the table, is resting against Dean's ankle and he wonders if Sam is even aware of it, if he's doing this shit on purpose or he just doesn't notice the contact. Irritated, Dean snaps, "Dude," and kicks at Sam's leg.

Sam jumps and jerks his foot back to his side of the narrow table. "Sorry," he blurts. He looks far more embarrassed than he should if it were an accident, and Dean narrows his eyes.

"What the hell is up with you, man?" he demands.

Sam shakes his head quickly, his hair swishing across his face and effectively shielding him from view. "Nothing," he mutters. That's not good enough, and both of them know it, but Dean also knows he's not going to get another word out of Sam on the subject if he doesn't want to talk.

One successful hunt later, they're both covered in muck of an indescribable nature. Dean insists they strip down to their underwear, to minimize the damage to the Impala's interior. Sam does so with undue grumpiness, even for him, and glares out the window in stony silence for the entire ride back to the motel, whereupon he charges into the bathroom like a rampaging moose, growling over his shoulder at Dean, "I call first shower!" and veritably slams the door.

Dean stares after him, bewildered. He would have let Sam shower first anyway; Sam's got longer hair, and consequently more muck to wash out of it. It's not a concession that it particularly bothers him to make, but the way Sam's been acting recently is far more troubling. It's just bizarre, particularly the silence; Sam's always been, if anything, a little too willing to talk about his feelings.

The motel walls are thin, and even over the sound of the shower, Dean can hear Sam. He's not trying to listen, and he turns on the TV at high volume to drown out his ridiculously loud brother, until someone in the room next door pounds on the wall and yells something indistinct. Dean turns the sound down again and tries to simply tune out the sounds of Sam getting himself off. Dean _knows_ Sam knows how to be quiet; they both do, thanks to years spent sharing a bedroom as teenagers.

The inescapable conclusion Dean draws from all of this is that there are two possibilities: either Sam is so desperately aroused that he can't control his moans, or he deliberately wants Dean to hear him. The first, Dean finds unlikely, unless Sam has some bizarre and seriously fucked-up fetish about being covered in dead monster goo--and come to think of it, that would explain his strange reluctance to get out of his soiled clothes. The second is not something Dean's brain is even capable of processing.

The scream of Dean's name makes him jump, adrenaline shocking through his system. The subsequent loud thump of flesh hitting ceramic could be Sam's fist on the tiled wall as he comes, or it could be his head striking the edge of the tub and Dean is on his feet and headed for the bathroom door before his rational mind catches up with his instincts. If Sam's hurt himself Dean will break down the door if he has to, but before he can draw back his foot to kick it in he hears the water shut off.

He tries to get his breathing under control as he listens to the rattle of the shower curtain drawing back, the shuffling sounds of Sam yanking a towel off the rack and drying himself off. Dean is still standing there when the door opens and Sam nearly walks into him.

His brother is bare except for the towel wrapped around his hips, and his skin is flushed all over, from the hot water or exertion but not embarrassment, not judging by the way Sam meets Dean's eyes unflinchingly, almost a challenge. Dean stares back, uncertain of the terms or whether he wants to win. He resists the urge to clear his throat (because that would betray his discomfort) or nervously lick his lips (in case that's taken as an invitation). So he merely shifts his weight and says, "You done in there?"

Sam wordlessly moves aside, and Dean steps past him into the bathroom and shuts the door. He peels out of his boxers and steps into the shower. At least Sam had the courtesy to rinse out the tub when he was done.

So it seems that Sam has got it into his head to lust after Dean, and to let Dean know. Dean scrubs his face under the hot spray, as though he can wash that knowledge away. He can't say he approves of Sam's choice, but he honestly isn't all that surprised. Sam has a notable history of going after the wrong people. Besides, everyone they meet who doesn't know them seems to think they're a couple anyway. Hell, even some people who know them think that, people like Bobby who ought to know them well enough to know they're not.

Dean scours the foulness from his hair and tries not to get any in his eyes or mouth as the shampoo lather slides down his skin. There has to be a way to fix this. Maybe if he just ignores Sam's unsubtle hints, Sam will lose interest, or go after someone more receptive to his advances. Dean doesn't want to reject Sam outright, because he knows that will hurt him. He loves his brother, just not in that way, and he thinks gently discouraging Sam is the best way to deal with this, when they're not ever going to stop loving each other and they still have to work together every day.

It keeps him up that night, turning it over in his mind. He’s trying to figure out what to do about the Sam situation for hours after he’s heard his brother’s breathing subside into a deep, slow rhythm. It’s almost deep enough to be called snoring, at times; not loud enough that it would keep Dean awake if he could sleep anyway, but as alert as Dean is, he can’t focus on anything else. And then Sam moans.

He can’t be faking it; Dean knows what Sam’s breathing sounds like when he’s pretending to be asleep, and this isn’t it. The moan is almost like the snoring, just a slightly deeper exhale on each breath, barely voiced, but it’s enough. It’s the same sound he was making in the shower, when he wanted Dean to hear. It’s the sound of being unbearably turned on and desperate to get off.

Sam isn’t touching himself now. His body is still, under the covers; he’s only dreaming, agonizingly aroused but paralyzed by sleep. Dean can’t see what Sam is dreaming, of course, but he knows for a certainty that it’s about him. This is obsession, what Sam feels for him; it’s infected his subconscious as well as his waking thoughts. Dean is in his mind, his soul, his very breath.

Dean doesn’t even realize he’s reached into his boxers and wrapped a hand around his cock until he feels the pulse of precome over his fingers. He grips himself firmly, his iron-hard shaft throbbing in his fist. His cock doesn’t know it’s his brother in the other bed, it just responds to the sounds, and Sam’s next moan has Dean biting his lip to hold back one of his own. He’s close, way too close, his balls drawn up tight to his body and his spine pulled taut as a bowstring.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam breathes, and Dean explodes, coming so hard the spasm of his muscles makes the mattress springs creak. Sam is nearly whimpering now, desperate to get off, and Dean’s hand is covered in come, the front of his boxers sticky and wet, still trying to catch his breath, still trying to get his fingers to unclench from around his dick.

When he can bring himself to move, he kicks the covers off so as not to get the sheets too messy before pulling his hand out of his underwear, then peels off the boxers and wipes his hand on the clean part before dropping them on the floor. He pulls the bedclothes back over his bare body--rummaging around in the dark for a fresh pair of underwear is too much effort right now, when his limbs are all warm and weak with post-orgasmic lassitude. “Dammit, Sam,” he mutters aloud by accident, and it’s as though his voice is a trigger: in the other bed, Sam cries out, convulses once under the covers, and goes still, his breathing subsiding back into his usual sleeping rhythm.

Dean rolls over, shoving his face into the pillow and pulling the blankets up to the back of his head. He’s annoyed at his brother for keeping him awake, and making him get his underwear all sticky, and giving him stupid lazy thoughts like how nice it would be to hold Sam’s warm body in his arms as he drifts off to sleep. He’s very annoyed indeed, smiling into the pillow with a strange fondness as his thoughts finally slow enough to let him slip into slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes at sunrise. A chink in the curtains covering the east-facing window admits a shard of light straight into Dean’s face. He turns his head the other way, back towards Sam; he intends to go back to sleep, but the bed squeaks loudly as he resettles his body and Sam shifts, stretches and wakes. He sits up, and his eyes widen momentarily. Dean winces in sympathy, knowing the unpleasant sensation of a crotch full of old come, but Sam’s gaze is fixed on something else.

Dean throws off the covers, sitting up to see what it is Sam’s looking at, and suddenly remembers he’s naked as his brother’s eyes move to Dean’s crotch. Instead of quickly glancing away, as is the polite thing to do, he just stares at Dean’s morning wood. Then his eyes flick back to the crumpled boxers on the floor, smeared with white, and Dean can see him putting the pieces together and jumping to the right conclusion. Meeting Dean’s gaze with puppydog eyes, and with something terrifyingly like hope in his voice, he says, “Dean--”

“No,” Dean snaps, standing up and breaking eye contact. No, they are not going to talk about this; no, this never happened. He heads for his duffel, ignoring the erection that’s obnoxiously slow to fade this morning. As he bends over to pull out clean clothes, he hears Sam make a sound, half-stifled. “Quit staring at my ass,” Dean barks, and when he straightens and turns, clothes in hand, he finds his brother staring at the opposite wall instead, his face flushed.

Breakfast is coffee and bagels in the car, eaten in uncharacteristic silence, which gives Dean time to think. His previous plan, of ignoring Sam’s lust until it went away, is clearly useless now. It went down the drain the moment Sam realized that Dean got off to Sam getting off last night--Sam thinks that means Dean wants him too, and nothing will convince him otherwise. Dean needs to come up with some way to convince Sam to drop this, without it seeming like Dean is lying in the face of damning evidence.

The idea comes to him that afternoon, after they leave a haunted house infested with the strangest assortment of ghosts. One of them is clad head-to-toe in a rubber suit, and Dean thinks, _That can’t possibly be comfortable._ And that’s it, of course. There’s nothing more offputting than bad sex. All Dean has to do to get Sam to drop this whole messed-up pursuit is to be really terrible in bed. It will be a challenge, but Dean thinks he can sink to the occasion.

One of the ghosts’ bodies is buried under the concrete-floored gazebo in the backyard, but the real estate agent who called them, desperate to sell the house again, offers to cover the cost of the destruction in addition to the generous fee she insists on paying them. It takes them a few days to finally get the bitch salted and burned, along with the other psychotic phantasms who inhabit the place. They are earnestly thanked by the middle-aged housekeeper, a redhead in a maid’s uniform that would be hot on a much younger woman, who apparently comes with the house even when no one is living in it. They have made a considerable profit on this job, and Dean is in a good mood as they leave town.

Dean checks them into the next motel while Sam gets their bags from the car and meets him in front of the door to their room. Dean unlocks the door, then takes his duffel from Sam and pushes past him to drop it at the foot of the bed.

“Uh, dude?” Sam says from the doorway.

“What?”

“I think they gave us the wrong room.”

“No, they didn’t,” Dean answers. “Shut the door, you’re letting the A/C out.” He flops down on the bed, the mattress bouncing under him with only a slight squeak.

Sam enters the room hesitantly, the look on his face wary as he sets his bag next to Dean’s and sits gingerly on the other side of the king-size bed. He opens his mouth as though to speak, then shuts it again.

“Sammy, you gotta stop,” Dean says.

His brother looks slightly hurt. “Stop what?”

“You know what.” Dean nudges at Sam’s hip with his foot. “The wet dreams, the longing looks, jerking off in the shower, checking me out when I’m not looking--it’s getting old. I mean, you’re acting like a kid with a crush.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam blurts. “I didn’t mean--”

“To want me?” Dean finishes for him. “This is no good, Sam. You know that, right?”

Sam looks abjectly miserable now. “I’ve tried, Dean, I can’t just stop--”

“Stop _wanting_ and just _take_ ,” Dean says, and Sam stares at him like he’s just sprouted horns. His jaw works a couple times but no words come out, and Dean smiles a little. He reaches out and catches hold of Sam’s t-shirt, and Sam lets himself be pulled down toward Dean until he’s leaning over his brother, looking like he is expecting to wake up at any moment. Then Dean shifts his grip to the back of Sam’s neck, and Sam virtually dives onto him, his mouth crashing against Dean’s.

They’ve been kissing for the better part of a minute before Dean remembers that he’s supposed to be bad at this in order for his plan to work. Trying to kiss badly is a little like trying to forget how to ride a bike, but he forces himself to let his mouth go slack under Sam’s and stop kissing back. Sam’s tongue delves into Dean’s mouth, exploring and claiming, and Dean passively lets him, unmoving under him. His hips have a mind of their own, though, shifting minutely, rhythmically, grinding up against Sam, and he catches himself groaning into Sam’s mouth, way too aroused, hard and leaking inside his jeans. He pushes at Sam’s shoulders until he breaks the kiss; Dean gasps, “Stop, stop, I’m too close.”

Sam smirks at him as he pulls away, and Dean can hear his voice without him needing to say anything: _Who’s the kid now?_ It occurs to Dean that coming in his pants when Sam’s still only half-hard would be a perfectly suitable incident of bad sex, but it’s too late now. He rolls off the bed, going for his duffel bag, and locates the lube and condoms without too much difficulty. When he turns back to Sam, he finds him shirtless, his head bowed as he unbuttons his jeans, his too-long hair obscuring his face again. The catch in Dean's breath is from a tiny bit of nervousness at the thought that he’s about to fuck his brother, he’s going to have sex with another _guy_ \--it’s certainly not unbridled lust triggered by the sight of all that hard muscle shifting under smooth, tanned skin; and if he swallows hard, that’s nervousness as well, not because his mouth is watering for his brother.

“Why are you still wearing clothes?” Sam’s voice has gone dark, nearly a growl as he shoves jeans and underwear down past his hips. It’s a good question, and Dean drops the lube and condom on the bed in order to pull his own t-shirt over his head. When he emerges, Sam has got the condom out of its wrapper, but he pauses to watch Dean strip.

“Bitch. Give me that,” Dean says, grabbing the condom back from him. Sam huffs in annoyance, _Jerk_ , but he lets him take it, then rolls over onto his belly. He spreads his legs, giving his hips an enticing little wiggle as he looks back over his shoulder at Dean, but Dean shakes his head as he rolls the condom on. “I want you on your back,” he says.

Sam’s eyes go wide, flooded with vulnerable emotion, and Dean wants to look away but he can’t. Sam sprawls out on his back, legs and arms open, waiting for Dean. Dean has read (okay, he did a little research) that it’s easier from behind, a little more comfortable if they’re back-to-front, and his goal here is for the fucking to be awkward and mildly unpleasant, so he’ll take Sam face-to-face. He’s nearly certain he can withstand that puppydog gaze until it’s over. Steeling himself, he crawls back onto the bed and over Sam, and Sam enfolds him in his long limbs like he’s missed him.

Dean kisses him again, soft and slow, as he gropes around for the lube with his eyes closed so he doesn't have to deal with the way Sam is looking at him like Dean is his whole world. Dean locates the tube, pops the cap off, and squeezes a generous amount over his hand. Here, his research has produced conflicting results--some sources say you can’t have too much lube, while others assert you definitely can. Dean has decided to err decisively on the side of too much, because he doesn’t actually want to _hurt_ Sam, which could happen if he uses too little. Too much, he thinks, will at worst result in messy, squelchy, mildly unpleasant sex, with not enough friction to be really satisfying. Mildly unpleasant and unsatisfying is what he’s going for, here. He squeezes out another dollop of lube, just to be safe.

The press of his fingertip to Sam’s hole is met with a soft gasp and very little resistance. Dean is amazed at how easily it slips in, less to do with the slickness of his finger and more with how relaxed Sam is. The second finger isn’t appreciably harder to get in, and Dean breaks the kiss, his eyes narrowed. “I thought you’d be tighter,” he says, his tone just shy of accusatory. His research had insisted it would take a lot more careful fingering and stretching to get Sam opened up for him.

Sam is blushing, to Dean’s gratification. “I had some practice,” he admits. “So I’d be ready, just in case you ever actually wanted...”

There’s a sharp, swooping sensation in the pit of Dean’s stomach, like he’s just been unexpectedly dropped a few feet. “You’ve been sleeping with other guys?” For some reason, the mental image of Sam getting fucked by some faceless dude he picked up at a bar makes him feel sick. He’s not homophobic--he’s about to have sex with a guy, of course he’s not homophobic! He just feels cold and kind of nauseous and maybe a tiny bit homicidal at the thought of someone else with Sam.

“What? No, of course not!” Sam says, and that unpleasant sensation evaporates. Dean realizes he’s stopped moving, and goes back to stretching Sam open, scissoring his fingers. “I just meant with my own hand. You know, in the shower. Dude, that’s enough, you can stop.”

“Huh?” Dean says intelligently, trying to drag his mind back out of his dick, where it’s now dwelling on the mental image of Sam finger-fucking himself.

“I don’t need that much prep, Dean. I’m good to go,” Sam tells him, and Dean obligingly withdraws his hand, still sloppy with lube, and strokes it up his length a couple times.

He lines up and hesitates, the blunt head of his cock nudging at Sam’s hole, mentally preparing himself to have really bad gay sex with his brother until Sam whines, “Dude, come _on_ ,” and he shoves in with one smooth thrust. Sam gasps, and Dean thrusts his tongue back into Sam’s mouth to prevent himself from making a really embarrassing noise. Despite the excessive lube, despite it not being as tight as he’d expected, it’s the best fucking thing he’s ever felt in his life, and his blood is on fire. He’s burning from the inside out, stars bursting behind his eyelids, and he’s not going to last. He doesn’t care, though--he needs to come, and isn’t that the point, that he won’t last and he’ll leave Sam unsatisfied, and Sam will never want to do this again...

They’re not so much kissing, now, as just gasping for breath with their lips touching. Dean is thrusting without thinking about it, fucking purely on reflex, and his hand works itself between their bodies to wrap around Sam’s cock--and that's a strange sensation, another man’s dick in his hand, so much like his own but so different from touching himself. Sam cries out against Dean’s mouth and bucks up against him, and that’s _it_ , it’s fucking over embarrassingly soon. Dean’s cock is throbbing inside Sam with each pulse of come he spurts into the condom and his hand is still frantically jerking Sam’s cock, slick and hot and hard, and then Sam is whimpering again, _whimpering_ like when he came in his sleep, and spilling over Dean’s hand.

Dean finds himself collapsed on top of Sam, his hand still curled around his brother’s softening cock. He groans as he forces himself to let go, pull out, and roll off of him. He carefully pulls off the condom, ties it off, and tosses it toward the trash. “Sorry, man,” he says when he can get his voice to work. “Maybe next time will be better.”

“ _Better?_ ” Sam repeats.

Dean looks at him. They were fucking for less than thirty seconds. Dean hasn’t performed that badly since he lost his virginity. “You thought that was good?”

“You didn’t?” Now Sam looks hurt again, damn him.

Dean winces, and for some reason can’t get out the words, _No, it sucked._ “I woulda liked it to last a little longer,” he mutters instead.

Sam grins and smacks him on the knee. “ _Next time_ will be better,” he promises, standing up and stretching. “How does round two after dinner sound?”

“Sounds great,” Dean says. Apparently he needs another chance to prove to Sam that he’s terrible in bed, anyway.

“Great. I’m gonna go shower,” Sam replies. “Find us some pizza, would you?”

“Sure,” Dean agrees absently, as Sam walks--somewhat gingerly, Dean notes with a trace of smugness--into the bathroom and shuts the door. Dean stares after him for a moment, feeling strangely empty, before shaking it off.

He still can’t shake that image of Sam “practicing” getting fucked. Spreading those long, muscled thighs, reaching back to push in first one slick finger, then a second--he’s been fantasizing about Dean the whole time, not just fucking him but getting fucked as well. Dean had assumed topping to be obviously preferable, but Sam was clearly willing to do either...it is possible, Dean concedes, that taking it up the ass has more benefits than he’d first thought. He read about prostate stimulation, of course, during his research, but since he hadn’t been focused on trying to maximize anyone’s pleasure, he’d only skimmed those parts. Now, curiosity is steadily tightening its hold, and if Sam can come from a cock up his ass and a couple strokes of his dick, Dean thinks it might be worth a try.

His right hand is still slick with lube and Sam’s come. He reaches between his legs, one fingertip circling his entrance, probing at the furled muscle, just exploring for now. The sphincter is tightly puckered, and Dean can’t see how anything as thick as a cock could possibly be comfortable, but--Sam did it, and liked it, so Dean makes a concerted effort to relax and pushes his finger inside.

It feels _weird_ , but not painful. He takes a moment to get used to the intrusion, then pushes in the rest of the way. It’s still fine, and Dean thinks he might not mind being fucked like this, if he were stretched out properly and got used to it, but he doesn’t think he can come from just this. It’s nowhere near the kind of mind-blowing pleasure he saw mentioned as he skipped over irrelevant information. Clearly, he hasn’t found his prostate yet--that’s supposed to be the magic pleasure button, the male g-spot, according to the internet. He pokes around inside himself, carefully, trying to remember from stuff he didn’t actually read where his prostate is-- _oh_. There. Dean’s eyes go wide, and he deliberately brushes that spot again. It makes his muscles twitch, his hole clenching around his finger with pleasure, and his cock begins to stiffen again. Okay, he’s starting to get it now. Maybe, if Sam’s cock brushed Dean’s prostate on every thrust, maybe he could get off on that.

He slides in another finger alongside the first, stretching himself wider; when he’s used to that, he scissors them apart and twists them, stretching even more, then slowly pulls them out and thrusts in again. If he keeps his fingers stiff and straight, he figures it’s almost like Sam’s dick in his ass--except Sam’s bigger than that, so he adds a third finger, more even than he gave Sam, but then, Sam had had _practice_. Dean clenches his other hand in the bedspread, resisting the urge to wrap it around his erection--Sam will be pissed if Dean starts round two without him.

It’s not long before Dean’s eyes slip shut, and he’s moaning softly, drifting on a sea of bliss, his cock leaking down its length. He isn’t even aware that the shower has stopped until he hears Sam clear his throat meaningfully from very close by. His eyes snap open to find his brother looking down at him with a mixture of amusement and lust. “You didn’t order pizza, did you,” Sam says.

“I’m practicing,” Dean counters. “It’s your turn to be on top.”

Sam sucks in a breath, his eyes going dark. “I thought we said _after_ dinner,” he says, but he drops the towel from around his waist just the same.

“Listen,” Dean says, as Sam heads for the foot of the bed to grab another condom. “You got that thing cleared up, right?”

“What thing?” Sam says, bending over to rummage through the duffel, and Dean takes a moment to appreciate the view.

“That he-witch gave you--”

“Yes, Dean,” Sam cuts him off, annoyed. “I’m clean. Are you?”

“Yup,” Dean answers cheerfully. “So we don’t really need those, do we?” He gestures dismissively at the box of condoms that Sam has located.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You wanna go bareback? That’s quite a commitment, Dean.”

Dean shrugs, ignoring the way his face heats. “We’re already family,” he mutters. “How much more committed to each other can we get?” He pulls his fingers out, because it doesn’t really seem right to talk about this kind of stuff with his hand up his ass.

“We’d have to be exclusive,” Sam says. “Monogamous. We don’t want either of us bringing something home to the other.”

“Or we could just keep using rubbers with other people,” Dean points out, but at the look on Sam’s face, he hastily adds, “Kidding, Sam. Jeez.” He hadn’t been, but letting go of the idea is no hardship. For as long as he and Sam are sleeping together, he won’t sleep with anyone else--that doesn’t seem at all like a difficult promise to keep, as he expects one more disappointing fuck will be the death blow to their sexual attraction to each other.

Sam sits down on the bed beside Dean, still holding the box of condoms like he doesn’t believe him. “I mean it,” he says. “If we’re gonna do this without protection--”

“I know,” Dean interrupts. “I know how safer sex works, Sam.” He reaches out and catches Sam’s hand with his clean one. “I’m not gonna cheat on you. I wouldn’t do that to my own brother.” Distantly, he wonders how this got so far off the rails that he’s finding himself swearing monogamy to the person he’s supposed to be discouraging.

“Good,” Sam says, and the smile that spreads across his face makes the Sun look like a 40-watt bulb. He pitches the box of condoms into the trash can, and Dean hides a wince--those would have been useful, for after he and Sam stopped sleeping together and went back to screwing other people. It’s okay, though; he can always fish them out of the garbage later, when Sam’s not looking.

“So,” Dean says, and clears his throat. Sam is still holding his hand. “You waiting for me to ask nicely, or what?”

Sam looks a little confused. “Huh?”

Dean sighs. “Please will you fuck me in the ass now?”

Sam laughs and falls on him, kissing him, and it takes Dean’s breath away. It’s not rough, but it’s thorough, and Dean just melts. His thighs fall open and there’s Sam between them, his cock prodding at Dean’s entrance, bare and slick and, Jesus, _huge_. A flash of trepidation strikes him, worry that he didn’t stretch himself enough--okay, Sam isn’t _that_ much bigger than Dean, but Sam was still walking funny and he _is_ a little bigger--and then he’s pushing into Dean, and Dean exhales all his anxiety. It does feel huge, and Dean can find absolutely nothing to complain about. He feels completed, like he’s been empty for way too long and never had any idea anything was missing until now.

“Sammy,” he breathes, and Sam bottoms out and stills, breathing hard against Dean’s neck.

“You okay?” he says. “It doesn’t hurt or anything, does it?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “I’m okay. Won’t be if you don’t start moving soon, though.”

Sam grins and kisses him, soft and sweet, and slides out halfway. He thrusts back in with some force, and Dean can feel him way the hell up in there, Jesus, Sam’s cock is _enormous_. Dean moans, rolling his hips a little to meet his brother's next thrust, and _oh_ that's his prostate. "God," he gasps, "Sam."

"Hang on," Sam says, his voice strained, and he stops mid-thrust, halfway in. "I wanna try something."

"Are you kidding me right now?" Dean demands, frustrated beyond belief. He reaches to wrap his own hand around his cock, because if Sammy isn't gonna take care of him then he'll do it himself, but Sam grabs his hand.

" _Wait_ ," he says, "just let me try this!" He sits up, rolling his hips under Dean's so Dean's ass is in Sam's lap. The way his cock shifts inside Dean as the angle changes is one of the weirdest things he's ever felt, and his erection begins to wilt by the time Sam gets settled.

And then Sam bends in half, his spine curving over like a horseshoe, and wraps his lips around the head of Dean's cock. " _Holy fucking shit_ ," Dean gasps, "when the fuck did you get this flexible?"

Sam hums around him in answer, pushing the tip of his tongue against Dean's slit and rolling his hips, and the new angle turns out to be absolutely fucking perfect as the head of Sam's dick scrapes right over Dean's sweet spot. He can't get Dean's cock all the way into his mouth, but he wraps his hand around the shaft and strokes as he does things with his tongue that more than make up for it. He's not so much giving Dean a blowjob as he is making out with his cock as he thrusts gently into him, and Dean's eyes are rolling back in his head.

"Sammy, I'm--I'm gonna come soon," he warns, breathless; he can feel it building, tightening his balls and pulling his belly taut. His hands clench fistfuls of Sam's hair--he's not even aware of when he grabbed it, but he will never ask Sam to get a haircut ever again, because it's perfect for tugging. And Sam won't be tugged--he stays right where he is, swirling his tongue over the head of Dean's cock as though he didn't hear, and Dean is hovering right on the edge of ecstasy. "I'm gonna come!" Dean says again, louder; and, "You gonna swallow, Sammy? You wanna swallow my load?" Sam whimpers around him, and Dean falls over the edge so hard he sees stars.

Sam's tongue coaxes every pulse from him, and Dean clenches around Sam's cock as he spills into his brother's mouth. He can feel the moment when Sam comes apart, shooting hot and wet inside him as he pulls off of Dean's cock and drives deep into him. Sam's eyes are shut, his lips parted on a moan, and the sight of him makes Dean spasm again, one last spurt splashing on his belly.

Sam is trembling as he pulls out and nearly collapses on top of Dean; it's kind of a barely-controlled flop, and he ends up lying half on Dean's chest, one arm draped over his torso, and Dean can forgive this attempt at cuddling just this once because his limbs are currently made of jelly, and wholly incapable of pushing Sam off of him. When he tries, he somehow ends up with his arms wrapped around his brother instead.

"That was awesome," Sam mumbles into Dean's chest. "God, I don't remember the last time I felt that good." Suddenly he pushes himself up to look down at Dean with a face full of concern. "Was it good for you? I mean, I know you came, but I know that was your first time bottoming, was it as good--"

Dean cuts him off, laughing. "Relax, Sammy," he says. "It was awesome for me too." He grabs a handful of Sam's hair again, which might be his new favorite thing, and pulls him down for a kiss. He tastes his own come on his brother's tongue and moans into his mouth.

Sam settles beside him, head on the pillow this time, and closes his eyes. "So," he says lazily. "Awesome all around, then. We should do that again."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. He shifts closer to Sam on the bed, missing the warmth of his skin. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there's a vague sense that he's doing something that he hadn't meant to do. Sure, he's not usually a cuddler, but he just had really great sex, twice, and he thinks he can be forgiven for wanting to stay close to Sammy because he's big and warm and Dean loves him.

Sam's eyes snap open, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree, and Dean realizes, horrified, that that last part might have been out loud. It's not a mistake he's prone to making, and it's such a fucking cliché that he almost refuses to believe it actually happened.

His thoughts must be showing on his face again because Sam laughs and says, "Don't forget to breathe. I know you love me, jerk. You're my brother. It'd be pretty fucked-up if you didn't."

"You love me too, bitch," Dean says. Sam's right, of course--he's always loved Sam more than anybody in the world. The sex doesn't really change anything, except that now he gets to do his favorite thing with his favorite person. He's not sure why he ever thought this was a bad idea.

When Sam frowns, Dean realizes he still hasn't gotten his internal monologue back to being internal. "You thought it was a bad idea?" Sam repeats. "Why?"

"I was nervous about the butt thing," Dean says quickly. "You know. Not something I'm used to." Sam is still frowning at him like a hurt puppy and Dean winces. "Don't get mad, okay? I thought it was a bad idea because we're brothers. If it went badly and we broke up, we couldn't ever just be exes, we couldn't be just an earlier chapter of each other's history. We're family, we're stuck with each other, and if we had a bad breakup it would be fucking horrible forever."

Sam nods slowly. "So what changed your mind?" he asks. "I mean, you obviously decided to try it anyway."

"I thought I could end it gently if I was really bad in bed and you decided it wasn't worth it," Dean mutters. "That's what I was trying to do, with this. The one bed, the coming onto you, I was thinking we'd fuck and get it over with, and it would be terrible and you'd never want to do it again."

" _That_ was you being bad in bed?" Sam demands, his eyes wide. "Holy shit, Dean. Fuck me again, and don't hold back this time!" He spreads his legs wide in invitation.

"Shut up," Dean says. "That wasn't me being bad in bed. I forgot to be bad because you were too good."

Sam grins at him. "What? I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you just said, could you repeat that?"

"You're fantastic in bed and that's the last time you'll catch me saying it," Dean grumbles.

"You were the one who asked for 'next time,'" Sam reminds him smugly. "You were not prepared for how good I am."

"If you don't shut up, next time I really _will_ be terrible," Dean warns.

"Like the previous two times you planned to be terrible? Because that turned out so well. You should try to be terrible all the time."

Dean sighs. "How did I end up here?" he mourns. "I never intended to sleep with you more than once, and now I never want to stop."

"You fell in love with me," Sam posits.

"Did not," Dean protests. He leans over and kisses his brother gently, a soft press of lips that lingers as he pulls back. "And if I did, it was totally by accident."


End file.
